


Your Smile My Mantra

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Community: help_haiti, Dom/sub, Domestic, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-29
Updated: 2010-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is terribly late and terribly short of promised word count for <a href="http://msilverstar.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://msilverstar.dreamwidth.org/"><strong>msilverstar</strong></a>.  I hope you'll forgive me, darling, as I made the offer for help_haiti right before massive writer's block hit and writing has been like pulling teeth.  If I ever get my mojo back, I'll write you a second story to meet the count.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Your Smile My Mantra

**Author's Note:**

  * For [msilverstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msilverstar/gifts).



> This is terribly late and terribly short of promised word count for [](http://msilverstar.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**msilverstar**](http://msilverstar.dreamwidth.org/). I hope you'll forgive me, darling, as I made the offer for help_haiti right before massive writer's block hit and writing has been like pulling teeth. If I ever get my mojo back, I'll write you a second story to meet the count.

His sofa is never this comfy when she's not on it; somehow the cushions provide more support for his back with his head on her thigh just so, and at some point he's rotated so that he's not looking at the television at all, but instead he's facing the ceiling, eyes closed, her thigh under his neck and his head cradled between her legs. Her skirt is long and loose and crinkly like crêpe paper, an uncharacteristic black, but the neckline of her tanktop is embroidered with cheerful pale pink flowers and broad mint green leaves. He doesn't have to look up to picture the soft sunshine fall of her hair over her shoulders, or the little laugh lines around her eyes when she smiles at a joke on the screen. Her fingertips trace over his cheeks, his forehead, his hair, and it feels like safety.

"Get me a cup of tea, love?" she asks at the commercial, and he gets reluctantly to his feet, feeling the blood rush as he stands and stretching his arms over his head. There's a very expensive electric kettle in his kitchen, something a fan sent him as a gift, and it's practical enough that he didn't bother to donate or throw it out. Miranda likes something fancy on occasion, so he measures some floral Earl Grey blend from a canister into the little plastic chamber and tells the digital display what it's supposed to be brewing. Seven minutes isn't long enough to return to the sofa and get comfortable, so he leans back against the counter to wait, head tipping to rest against a white-painted cabinet door, fingers lacing as he pushes his hands out in front of his body to stretch his wrists. He's given up his yoga routine since Miranda showed up; he doesn't begrudge Miranda her privacy but he doesn't want to be the one taking away time when they could be touching, cuddling, connected.

When the kettle beeps, he stirs half a spoonful of sugar into the black ceramic mug and carries it into the living room with both hands, letting the warmth transfer into his palms. She likes the air conditioner a little high for his tastes, but it's a small sacrifice and the heat of her body is enough to compensate.

She takes the mug with a grateful smile, and he grins as he folds down to the floor, sitting next to her calves and letting his cheek rest against her knee. He likes to relax like this with her, though he doesn't ascribe any symbolism to it as his arms wind loosely around the nearest of her legs and her fingers comb absently through his hair. He makes a soft sound akin to a purr, and then he starts to let go again, the drone of the television only white noise as he approaches a near-meditative state. When her voice penetrates the fog, there's a fond note in it, and she bends to kiss the top of his head.

"Let's go to bed."

He smiles, a wicked little boy's smile, because it's three in the afternoon and such statements from her make him feel triumphant, like he took some sort of a shortcut that miraculously worked. She tugs him easily along by the hand, to his big bed with its pillow-soft white duvet, and she presses her hands to his cheeks as she stands on tiptoes to kiss him.

Orlando ends up on his back, and she sits there straddling his hips, her skirt all spread out around her, hands idly stroking his chest through his t-shirt and her head cocked to the side as if she's considering what to do. He doesn't mind letting her take her time; his hands rest lightly on her thighs and he smiles softly at her, just because she's here and she inspires smiling.

"Do you want me to eat you out?" Orlando offers after a few moments of silence, his voice softer than usual.

"Maybe later," Miranda grins, and then tips into action, her hands dragging his t-shirt over his head. His arms rise obediently and she twists the shirt around his wrists, binding them loosely in place. She laughs lightly, he's not sure at what, as she rounds her back and kisses him feather-light, then licks seemingly at random down to his right nipple. She considers it a moment, but doesn't bite; her fingers come instead to the dusky nub of skin and close over it in a slowly tightening pinch. He hisses a breath through his teeth and his eyes flash wild for a moment, his gaze locked on her. She looks pleased, and her thumbnail digs in for half a second before she lets go, soothes with her tongue.

He closes his eyes as she works her way down his body, licking, biting. He doesn't mind if she leaves marks; he's not filming, and later he'll press his thumb into the little bruises from her teeth and smile to himself. He never leaves any on her by some unspoken agreement, but she's not delicate, either. Sometimes he fucks her and it's rough and physical, in the bed or up against a wall, like the first time they did it in a trailer with only a half awareness of their own madness. The next day on set, Viggo had grinned in that cunning secret way of his, and to this day Orlando doesn't know if he heard anything.

This afternoon isn't for roughness, though, and he slips back into that meditative state as she strokes her fingers over his body, getting him naked and crawling up and down to taste and pet alternating bits of skin. The fabric of her skirt brushes over his legs, his hips, and her hair sweeps across his chest, but he doesn't feel a need to open his eyes. There's a low hum of arousal in his gut, in his veins, the tickle of adrenaline and anticipation whenever her lips and fingers leave his skin for a moment. He doesn't tell anyone that he believes sex to be spiritual, because discussion would ruin it. But he thinks she knows, maybe, that he goes somewhere else on these afternoons, and she keeps the trance drawn out as she touches him, as she takes her time.

Her fingers trail through the thatch of hair at his underarm as she sinks down onto him, and he doesn't open his eyes even now, just relishing the slow slide of her pussy down over his erection. She bends and bites at a sensitive bit of skin on the underside of his arm, stretched taut by the improvised bondage around his hands. Then she passes her lips over his, and the tip of her tongue catches the corner of his mouth. His lips part and he breathes her in, gasps into her mouth as she thrusts suddenly downward. She grinds against him, and he wonders what it feels like to have his cock deep inside like this, if she can feel it low in her belly. Such intimate questions never come to his lips, but he thinks them in a fleeting bubble of thought that slides away with her next rocking motion.

Orlando loves her, and he says it often, but today it is unnecessary. He rides the wave of altered consciousness through and past his orgasm, and the soothing brush of fingertips over his chest, and the warm weight of her cuddled up against him, on top of him. Their breathing slows in time, and they enter sleep with their fingers laced together, her hand above his head.


End file.
